


Ridiculous

by alwaysanoriginal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is soft, and cute, and he has a Huge Frickin Crush on John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 12:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysanoriginal/pseuds/alwaysanoriginal
Summary: Sherlock, now that he's alone, has...illicit plans.





	Ridiculous

**Author's Note:**

> Set around series 2 time, in my mind :)

The flat is perfectly, utterly still.

The same can be said for its current sole inhabitant: Sherlock sits in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as he stares towards the open door.

He listens.

He knows John is out with Stamford for the day, and he knows Mrs. Hudson is out doing... something. Doesn't matter. The point is that he knows he's alone. But he continues to listen carefully, for the umpteenth time, checking just to make sure again and again. He gathers the will to move.

Because Sherlock, now that he's alone, has... _illicit plans_.

There is one part of the flat that he never, ever sees, and he's _curious_. He wants to _know_. It'll just be a single glimpse and it'll be worth it. The information the room could hold! The deductions he might make! The newfound knowledge he'll potentially acquire!

Those are his excuses, anyway.

The room is, of course, John's. The upstairs bedroom. _John's_ bedroom.

The deal he's made with himself is that it isn't a breach of privacy if the door isn't closed. If the door is closed, he won't touch it. Sherlock just really wants to see John's room without precisely knowing why he wants to see it so badly.

So he sits, and he listens, and once he has fully convinced himself that he is, indeed, alone... he stands up. Softly. And he pads to the door in bare feet, and he listens again. Just to make sure.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he tells himself. _No one is **here**. Relax._

His heart is hammering, and he doesn't know why. Slowly, carefully, he places one foot on the bottom step. Then the other. One by one, he moves upwards.

Heart in his throat, gazing up at the window light he can see coming from the half-open doorway, Sherlock creeps up the stairs. He's being excessively quiet for no reason. He still feels ridiculous but is unable to stop.

Once he reaches the doorway, he nudges the door just enough to stick his head in the opening. He's holding his breath; why is he holding his breath? He still can't lower his heart rate. But now he's _looking_ and he's _seeing_. The forbidden room.

The room is spartan, overall, which he expected. John spends little time here, and Sherlock thinks of that with no small deal of satisfaction.

Grey sheets, bed made with precise military corners. Book on the bedside table; _Animal Farm_. Old glass of water next to it. Couple of picture frames on the dresser but he disappointedly can't see their contents from this angle and he doesn't have the courage to actually enter the room. Slight layer of dust; the watch is placed in more or less the same area every day. Basket of dirty clothes... Are those—socks? On the floor? He squints and wonders which drawer holds the jumpers. Drawer... two?

Sherlock suddenly feels like he's going to pass out. He reminds himself to inhale, but instead of calming him, all that does is make him realize that the room smells like John.

_John. John John John._

Wait.  
Was that a sound?

There definitely wasn't a sound, and he knows it, but his body doesn't know that, and now he's spooked with his flight instinct engaged. He jerks away from the door abruptly and clamors down the stairs in a whirlwind of pajamas and dressing gown like he's being chased, and he flips onto his chair and strikes a normal pose, and _his heart is racing triple time why is he freaking out so much no one is even home_.

He sits for a minute, paralyzed like a deer in headlights, ears straining for any sound...but of course— _of course_ —there's nothing. 

He huffs to himself. "Idiot."

This is ridiculous.

But there _is_... one more thing he wants to do. If he can make himself do it and ignore his insensibly paranoid body.

Sherlock eyes John's jumper.

It's the beige-colored one, draped over John's chair in such a way that he's positive he could recreate the exact position. John wouldn't notice. He'd have no idea it was even touched.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the chair. Crosses and uncrosses his legs. Fidgets. Very abruptly stands, grabs his phone, takes a photo of the draped jumper, and then—snatches it up.

It's soft, somehow more so than he expected. He lifts it to his face carefully, almost reverently, and inhales.

_John._

John's soap. That smell he's only briefly gotten a whiff of when they're standing Too Close or when he finds an excuse to flit past the steamy bathroom after John showers. It's stronger here. Under that, other smells: pub, maybe. Clinic. Food. When was the last time this was washed?

Sherlock doesn't care. He _loves_ this. Probably more than he ought.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he's pulling his dressing gown off and shimmying into the jumper in its place. Enveloped by John Watson, in a way. It's not the ways in which he wants most, but it will have to do.

 _10 minutes,_ he tells himself, setting an alarm on his phone. _No more than that._

He curls up in his chair, knees to his chest, and analyzes. The sleeves are short, the stomach a tiny bit high, but it's not tight on his shoulders; John is broader. It's surprisingly baggy in some places. John would probably tell him that he needs to eat more, and the thought makes him smile.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes, actually relaxed now. Content.

When the 10 minutes are up, he carefully extracts himself from the jumper and places it exactly as it was on the chair with the help of the photo. And almost immediately afterward, he feels... antsy. A little guilty. Oh God, John will be home soon. He has to act natural. Maybe he shouldn't have done this. What if John finds out? What should he do? 

John comes home to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa, anxious and mad at himself for the anxiety after pacing for awhile. He was _careful_. He did nothing wrong. John isn't even as observant as him; he won't notice anything. This is unbearably ridiculous. He has nothing to worry about.

John attempts smalltalk about his day even as Sherlock keeps his back turned. Sherlock makes noncommittal noises, heart rate speeding up again stupidly, fearfully waiting for John to say something about the jumper.

Pause. Sherlock stops breathing.

"Alright," John says easily. "No idea why you're in a mood this time, but feel free to enlighten me anytime you'd like."

Sherlock quietly lets out the breath he was holding. He continues to feign ignoring John but can practically hears him shrug the matter off, settling into his chair with his laptop. Just another day in 221B with the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, it seems. There's certainly precedence.

Sherlock's heart rate gradually slows again as he listens to John peck on the keys.

Tentatively and privately, he hides a smile in the back of the sofa, strangely giddy now.

_Mm. John._

Sherlock closes his eyes, and saves every ridiculous detail in his mind palace.


End file.
